I need to do this right. I won’t be selfish right now. This is for her, not me.
Tonight. Tonight will be better. Or tomorrow after I get a decent night’s sleep and go long enough without a drink that I don’t reek of alcohol. I can see her in the morning, first thing. I can meet her at work, or at the coffee shop, or . . .
My gut tightens. Rosie’s.
Yes. Fuck, yes, tomorrow is Tuesday. Our breakfast, the one morning Brooke agreed to give me.
I still want it. Does she? Will she show up? Will she be hoping I’m there, even though I hurt her and she has every right to hate me?
Anxiety soaks into my bones. My heart rattles in my chest.
God, if she’s there . . .
Fuck it. I might ask her to marry me before I get my apology out. I won’t be able to stop myself.
No. Come on, mate, she deserves to know how sorry you are. Give her that first.
An extraordinary serenity warms my skin. I’m so close. So close to seeing her. If she shows up at Rosie’s or not, this unbearable agony ripping me apart from the inside out is nearly extinguished because either way, I’m getting my girl back tomorrow.
And I’m never letting her go.
Swiping my arm along the bed, I grab the furry leg of the bastard stuffed koala and pull him against my side, squeezing him.
Only one more night in the tent without her.
BROOKE
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I know what I should be doing. I should be sleeping, or at least trying to sleep. I could use more than what I’ve been getting, which is turning out to be only a few hours a night. Not nearly enough. I’m exhausted. Physically and mentally. It distracts me from the pain a little so I’m okay with being too tired to care about how I look, and nearly too tired to care about anything. But since I am awake, and showered, at least half-way put together, I should be walking in the opposite direction on Fayette street and heading into work, but I’m not.
I’m walking past the coffee shop, down the street a little further toward those yellow umbrellas.
Why? Why am I doing this? I need all of the practice I can get, every spare minute I have to work on those flowers, and instead I’m wasting my time going to Rosie’s because it’s Tuesday.
It’s Tuesday.
Mason wanted this day so badly, this breakfast. Me, early in the morning, and I know he isn’t here. I know it. I know it just like I know that at some point today I’m going to hear that door chime and hope that it’s him, and it won’t be. And then I’m going to cry, and throw something, and scream a little. I’m going to miss him and hate him and love him because I can’t turn that off yet, and I’m afraid I won’t ever be able to.
I’m more afraid I’ll never want to turn it off, and I’ll keep doing this.
I know he isn’t here, but I can’t turn around. I can’t stop myself from crossing the street and stepping up onto the sidewalk. It’s programmed in me to look for him, to hope that he’ll be here. To hope that he’s still with me.
A shuddering breath fills my lungs. My eyes won’t stop watering. I can avoid this torment. It isn’t too late . . .
My body moves without thought. I scan the line wrapping around the building before stepping inside the busy café.
The young hostess looks up from her podium, ready to greet me, but I avoid her eyes and shift my attention around the room.
“Good morning. Is your party already seated?”
I hear her question as I study the faces in the booths along the window and the tables spread out along the floor.
Be here. Please, be here.
I take a step closer to look again, and again. One last time.
He isn’t here, and I knew he wouldn’t be, so why am I crying? Why?
The first tear slides down my cheek. I focus on the hostess and shake my head, biting at my lip. She gives me a concerned look. I need to get out of here before this becomes yesterday at the coffee shop all over again, where I sobbed uncontrollably the entire time I waited for my order.
I got a free muffin out of it, which was nice. Not that I had the appetite to eat it.
Spinning around, I push through the door and run straight into someone, bumping into their chest.
“I’m s-sorry,” I mumble, wiping at my face and moving to sidestep them.
Large hands squeeze my shoulders. “Brooke.”
My stomach drops. I look up at the person holding onto me, but I don’t need to. I know that voice. That low, relaxed voice. It pours over me like sap sticking to a tree. My bones suddenly feel heavier.
Mason studies me with parted lips and absorbing eyes. “God, I’m . . .” he pauses, moving his hands down my arms, squeezing gently. “It’s really good to see you.”
I blink up at him. “You’re here,” I whisper in disbelief, looking all over his face, waiting for him to vanish and for this to be just another layer of my nightmare. A cruel joke my heart is playing on me.
“Where else would I be?” he asks, smiling a little. “It’s Tuesday.”